He’s right here. Breathing, even. Pupils, wide. And yet. “No,” he says, firm. A heartbeat later, cold air brushes against my bare legs, and he’s walking out of the room.

Well.

Shit.

“Wait, Conor…” I run after him, but stop the second he spins around to face me. He looks so furious, it should probably scare me into a rapid retreat. All it does, though, is make me furious, too.

Yup, anger issues.

“Maya. This is…” He shakes his head. “We can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“You like me,” I say, accusing. “You want me.”

“Do I? What else do I want, Maya?”

“World peace? Honestly, I don’t care. But I do know that you’re attracted to me.”

“Is the attraction in the room with us?” he asks, derisive.

“Yes,” I say, deliberately lowering my eyes to his hips.

He turns away, raking his fingers through his hair. “Jesus.”

“You want me, Conor,” I repeat. It’s a statement. An axiom. We can fight over what to do about it, we can disagree on every letter of every word we say to each other, but I refuse to negotiate this simple truth.

He lets out a single, bitter laugh. Takes several angry steps closer, pointing his finger at me. “Of course I fucking want you. You are stupidly beautiful, and too fucking smart for your own good, and I refuse to go there, Maya.”

“Why?”

“Because you are twenty. And I’m not. That’s the end of it.”

I flinch backward. For some reason, I did not expect this. I figured he’d bring up Eli, but my age…Why would he care? “You can’t be serious.”

“Watch me. Christ.” He retreats again, running a hand down his face.

“What does my age have to do with it? You realize that it’s just a—a construct—”

He drops his arms. “If I cut a tree, I can count its rings. Age is a fucking biological reality.”

“What does deforestation have to do with us? Please, explain it to me, because I—”

“Come on, Maya.”

“We just spent a really nice day together in which we were just people hanging out, so—”

“Maya,” he says darkly. “You are being disingenuous.”

“I’m not. Please, spell it out for me.”

Conor seems to wrestle with himself for a moment. A deep nod. “Very well. There is lots going on, starting with the obvious, which is that I am fifteen years older than you.”

I shrug. “Like you said, Alfie was older, too. He’s nearly twenty-two.”

“There is no comparison.”

“What if he were twenty-three? Or twenty-four? Or twenty-five? Twenty-six.”

“Maya—”

“No, really, give me a cutoff. If you’re so certain that being with someone who’s older than you is wrong, there must be a scientific threshold to establish it. Where is the formula, Conor?”

“You’re being obtuse. This wide an age gap always comes with a power imbalance.”

I snort. “You”—I point at him—“could be a million years old, and you still wouldn’t be in a position of authority over me. Age is not always a proxy for power. It can be, sure, but I have absolutely nothing to gain from being with you, aside from being with you. And in case I haven’t made it clear, I am talking about sex.”